So, as I tweeted and blogged this past weekend (more tweets than blogs, because I was hella busy being in Vegas and not in front of my laptop.) I met up with my three girlfriends in Vegas for a long reunion weekend. The four of us are all from different parts of this grand ol' country we call the U-S-of-A, but we met when we were randomly assigned to live together while studying for a year in England.

So, we hadn't seen each other in the year-and-a-half since then. In other words, this was well overdue.

So, first of all, let me introduce you. We all had fake names for the weekend, so the psuedonyms worked themselves out perfectly for this blog...

This was us on our first night out. See those heels? Those were a bad choice. We did not make that mistake twice. But again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Let me go day by day, here.

Friday:

So, once we all got to Vegas, we wasted no time.

As we walked around the strip, we were constantly being approached by club promotors, all generally saying this: "Hey ladies! You going out tonight? Why not get on the lists for free?" At first, this seemed awesome, but then we found out that all of these people just want your money, so we quickly learned to tell them "No, thank you!" before they even got the chance to finish the "Hey ladies!" portion of their speech.

And then we met George. Suave, attractive, British George. George worked as one of the head promotors for a club called Tryst. He sat down with us while we were all chatting and asked politely if he could bother us for a moment. Not gonna lie, the accent helped with our decision. He started in on his speech and then Jessica interrupted.

Jessica: Do you have a badge or something to prove that you are who you say you are? I mean, how do I know you're not just like, some dude in a nice shirt and slacks that's feeding us BS?

George: Uh...haha, yes! Wow, you are not easy to impress, are you?

George then handed over his business card to Jessica. He goes on to tell us that if we came to Tryst, he would get us in for free and we'd get free drinks. We told him that we were already on the list for another club for that night, but we would definitely consider it Saturday. He then gave Jessica his phone number so that we could stay in touch with him about our plans.

So, that night we went to a different club, aka "the club": Marquee.

Remember those heels we were wearing in the first picture? Remember how I said it was a big mistake? I wasn't lying. Marquee was a club on the fifth, sixth, and seventh floor of the Cosmopolitan hotel. With no elevator. In other words, it was a girl's worst nightmare when she was wearing four-inch heels.

I have to take a moment here and point something out: This is Las Vegas. What girl isn't wearing high heels when she goes out? How did this ankle-breaking death trap become the place to be? Also, let me tell you that the only place you were allowed to sit down for free was on the toilet. Every couch was bought and reserved by wealthy men (who, in this case, were actually a bunch of NFL players who didn't make it to the Superbowl, so they came to Vegas for the game), and then guarded by security to make sure people like us didn't try and sit down for free.

Also, when we got in there, the free drinks we were promised by our non-George promotor were not provided - and the drinks in this club were far from cheap. So, we left, knowing we could get back in with the stamps on our hands. Where did we go? The convenience store around the corner. We bought a bottle of cheap champagne and an assortment of shooters of vodka and whiskey. We sat outside, downed the champagne (it took 7 minutes), hid the shooters in our purses and headed back in to the club to buy some slightly overpriced Coke before sneaking into the bathroom to mix our drinks ourselves. Am I proud? Actually, yes. A little bit.

By the end of our night, our smiles were totally fake. We were all in so much pain that we wanted to die. There was one point where I literally thought my feet were going to fall off. We left the club and when we got outside, and we saw that we were at a portion of the street where we actually needed to take an elevator up to a bridge in order to get to the other side where we could catch a cab. Of course. Why would they allow us to hail a cab right away? That would just be so nice and easy... Make us work for it, Vegas. That's what we really needed. So, there we were waiting for the elevator, and then I heard the sound of water hitting the ground.

Jessica: Holy shit. That is not water.

Sara: ...That is definitely pee.

Me: Why is it so close to me? I need to move.

The elevator opened and we got inside, where a security guard told us that we actually needed to go back down and around the corner in order to catch a cab. So, we get to the bridge level, let the security guard out, and hit the down button. That's when three guys around our age turn and see us, and immediately start shouting. Now, don't lose this image. We are all supporting ourselves on the walls of the elevator. We can't even stand. We look tired and miserable. Why this was appealing, I have no idea. One of these guys, who looks likes some suave hipster, runs and catches the elevator doors.

Hipster Dude: Okay, hold on ladies. One of you has to think I'm hot, right?

Me: ...Sure. What do you want?

That was all he and his friends needed. They get in the elevator and proceed to ride it up and down with us while they do their best to entertain us and get us to go out with them. All of a sudden Jessica pulls out this question:

Jessica: Wait. Did one of you guys just pee off the bridge?

All of them were shocked and yelled different variations of "what? No!!"

Except one.

Guilt was written all over this guy's face.

All of us: IT WAS YOU!!!!

It took us maybe one or two more trips up and down this elevator to get out and stumble our way to the cab line, where a nice man hailed one down for us and we went back to the house where we were staying.

We thought that night was crazy... We had no idea what we were in for Saturday night, though.

This post has been long enough, though. I'll write about Saturday night tomorrow! Glad to be back, readers!